A Voluntary Liplock
by telemetries
Summary: I've been drinking and sleeping and writing and wondering about you, about you, always about you, never about someone else because there is no one else." Some serious mature content; don't read if you're not mature.


**A Voluntary Liplock**

_A/N: This is probably one of the more mature things I'll ever post on this site. Read at your own discretion._

You're a pale, angry thing, and you've got your foot planted right on my chest, with me flat on my back, dust crawling up my nose and finely coating my fingertips. I've been drinking and sleeping and writing and wondering about you, about you, always about you, never about someone else because there is no one else. Or perhaps there is, but honestly, I haven't the patience to try and find them. You'll do just fine, I think.

I love to pull on your hair and bring your pulsing neck to my mouth, teeth catching your collarbone and lips trailing after your shoulder, licking your salty skin, aching ribcage. Something — _something's_ not quite right, it's true, and it's probably me. I was always chasing you, always wondering just how you'd feel underneath my hips, your erection pushing up against our stomachs and spurting thick semen everywhere, and I'd lick you clean because I think you taste lovely and it gives me something to do anyhow.

I'm sick, you know. I'm sick. In more ways than one, I'm afraid. I have dreams — I want to tie you up. Make you bleed. Push you into the wall and fuck you from behind until you're screaming, screaming,_ screaming my name_. I don't know if we're doomed or becoming doomed, lost or getting lost. Your mood swings, coupled with my anxiety, why, I think we make a good pair, babydoll. Oh, you hate pet names. That makes me _happy_. I love to do the things you hate, I think it's a great form of entertainment, quite honestly. And maybe I'll learn to tuck you into my handmade folds of lifestyle and comfort, maybe you'll get used to my childish thoughts and actions. Maybe our fingers won't grip each other's arms and leave pretty bruises one night, and we'll actually make love and not cry out in pain or anger, biting each other's tongues and lips, our blood mixing like grime into water.

But wishing is getting me nowhere, and I'm sitting on this couch, crying and laughing at the same time, and there you are in the corner with your head down and your mouth in a frown, and oh I _wish _you'd look happy for me. With me. Cheer me up, please baby? I need you, you know. I need _something_, goddamnit. Get my blood rushing, just make me want to run with you into sunset, into nothing. Maybe I should have married myself a girl. Girls are better at pretending. Or maybe you just suck at _everything_ — except the sex, of course. You were always doing something to get me going underneath those stale cotton sheets, ourselves caught up in a voluntary liplock, but everything seemed so _forced_ that I forgot you were consenting, but maybe you have rape fantasies anyway.

Shaking your head again, hm? Fine. I'm finished. I don't want to fight, I just want to sleep, really. Let's just...lay here, on this bed, arms around each other. Lips sewn shut. I go into the bathroom and flip the switch, the light casting ugly shadows on my face, and I make myself turn away from the mirror. I hate myself sometimes, you know? I guess that makes me just like everybody else. I _hate_ that sometimes, but I guess it's thoroughly inevitable.

You know what I miss? No, don't fall asleep, let me tell you! I miss...well, I miss a lot of things. I miss wasting time with you, going to Quidditch games, or just laying out there in that field, the one behind that pathetically shabby little church with the rusted bell. You'd just _lay_ there and I'd be _bored stiff_ but I'd love to look at you while you blew dandelions and made fun of the weirdly shaped clouds, everything so blue, blue, blue. You look pretty in blue, did I ever tell you that? It's true. You look so calm and so fragile and there's me, wanting to rip your clothes off because I want you so badly. But I learned how to maintain self-control a long time ago, and I refrain from doing such things, and besides I think you'd get angry with me if I tore another one of your sweaters again. I think you and I were both thankful when I ripped your old Gryffindor one, though; the threads were ejecting themselves from their carefully sewn seams and eating away at the cuffs and neck. Face it, I did you a favour — kind of like I always do.

Anyway, I'm speaking as though we don't waste time anymore, but I guess there's some kind of invisible chasm between us; not very mighty, it's small but it's _there_, and I want it gone so I can hold you close again without having to worry about a goddamn thing.

Oh fuck you, _fuck you_ you gorgeous son of a bitch, you're already asleep and you look so _at peace_ while you do it. Jesus fucking Christ, I want to just — I'd love to _hurt _you, but I can't because I don't know how to anymore. I already thought I hurt you plenty times before, with my rough touches and nasty whispers and snide comments, but when it was apparent that you wanted to stay I lost the urge, my drive. I just accepted where we were and plowed on with...well, I don't even _know_ what we're doing with ourselves anymore.

Fuck it. This is as good as it gets, and I think I love you but I have to ponder a little more about that first. I don't know where we're going, but I want it to be somewhere good. Somewhere I can kiss you and hold you and grow old with you, and this is all a load of crock and it'll probably never happen, but I do like to pretend sometimes, though you already knew that. I turn on the faucet, splash the cool water on my face. There, I think I look better now, think I look nicer now, maybe a little nicer than you. But we both know that's a goddamn lie. Turn off the light, get into the bed. I look over at your form, rising, falling, so gentle and patient, smooth. I trace meaningless shapes in the dark with my finger, thinking of how comfortable I am. I expect the morning, and you had _better_ be there with it. I can't dream without you nearby. I close my eyes and force myself to sleep, thinking of how I'll swallow some other bitter pill tomorrow and just chase it down with a dose of you.


End file.
